


Filet Mignon

by wearesuchstuff



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cooking, M/M, POV First Person, Present Tense, Schmoop, domestic bliss...or something like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearesuchstuff/pseuds/wearesuchstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t understand why you’re so distraught over this, John. It is just a chair."</p><p>Or, the one where Sherlock apologizes with exquisite French cuisine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filet Mignon

**Author's Note:**

> Long ago, this was a prompt from someone on Tumblr...I think...
> 
> Sorry if the tense/POV is weird. I was experimenting.

I watch him from the living room, scowling. “I know what you’re trying to do. It isn’t going to work, you know.” He ignores me, as he is so wont to do, his head of dark curls bent over some questionable concoction. “I’ll still be mad at you—really, properly cross.” There is no response other than a quiet hmmph and sizzle from the kitchen. I growl under my breath and look over at today’s innocent fatality of Sherlock’s experimentation. “Really, Sherlock, my chair?”  


It is in shambles. Still standing where it was this morning when I left for work, it is barely recognizable as the easy chair that I claimed as my own on practically the first day of living with Sherlock. The arms are shredded, as if some sort of demon cat had been at them. The entire seat cushion has been burned by a chemical cocktail, leaving a half-melted mess of fibers and a blackened, jagged hole that goes all the way through. The back is splattered with god-knows-what, things that look like paint and chemicals and even blood, and there is no way I am forgiving him for this.  


“Yes, John, your chair.” He finally speaks, in that silky, bored voice of his, his eyes never leaving the mixture in front of him. “There were several tests I needed to perform on upholstery, and it seemed time- and energy-saving to do them all at once, on one convenient sample. Your chair happened to be closest to the kitchen, have just the right amount of surface area, and be easily and affordably replaceable. Had it been more conducive, I would have used a different chair. Yours just worked perfectly.”  


“It worked just perfectly for sitting, too, before you ruined it.” I stand before the wreckage that is…no, was my chair and practically quiver with anger. He’s done a lot of things before that are probably worse than this—nearly getting me killed on so many occasions, taking my things without permission, acting like a petulant child more often than someone with his IQ should—but for some reason, it is this violation of my chair that is sending me over the edge.  


As always, he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “I don’t understand why you’re so distraught over this, John. It is just a chair,” he says, moving between the kitchen table and the stove. I pointedly ignore him, as he is doing so in a way that he knows is very alluring. I refuse to let myself fall prey to his techniques of distraction.  


“Yeah, well, it’s my favorite chair, and you went and bloody ruined it, and it’s been a long day,” I grumble, sitting down in his chair. It’s much less comfortable, I think. Mine had molded itself to my shape. His was much less worn in. There is a soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen. “And you can bloody well stop that! I told you, making me dinner is not going to make me any less angry with you!”  


I can see his profile as he chops an onion with those long fingers of his, and that sly smile of his crosses his face. “I have reason to believe it will,” he says, dropping the diced onion bits into the pan, where they sizzle nicely. I try to ignore him, and ask myself for approximately the millionth time since I first had sex with him why I find him so attractive?  


But the problem is I’m intrigued. Sherlock doesn’t cook: at least he hasn’t in all the time I’ve known him. He makes tea, and the occasional piece of toast, but other than that, it’s all take-out and my less-than-extraordinary attempts. So I am interested. He seems so certain that I’ll be won over by his cooking, so maybe he is good. He may be conceited, but he’s also one for accuracy. So, I pout and grumble and refuse to give him a second glance, but on the inside, I’m honestly curious. I think he knows that, but he’s polite enough to not point it out, at least not yet.  


Neither of us speaks for a long while. He’s too busy chopping and stirring and boiling, and I’m just being stubborn. Then, suddenly, he calls out, “John, come here.” I shoot him a look, and he just stands there, arms crossed over his thin chest, a spoon in one hand. He gestures with it. “Come along, John, there’s no use in pouting. I know you’re hungry, you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”  


I don’t bother asking him how he knows, but get up and go into the kitchen. He opens the oven and pulls out the most beautiful filet mignon I’ve ever seen, and slides it onto a plate that’s already got risotto and asparagus on it. My stomach groans traitorously. It all looks and smells heavenly. “You made filet mignon?” I ask, trying not to sound too shocked.  


He smiles. “Yes. I spent time in France during Uni, and my flat mate was studying at Le Cordon Bleu. I picked up a few things.” He sets the plate down on the table (which is miraculously cleared) and pulls out a chair for me. I feel like resisting, but don’t. Sherlock stands behind me, resting his hands on the back of the chair. “Go on, try a bite.”  


I do. It’s amazing. I let out a noise similar to, “Unnf,” and take another bite. The filet mignon is succulent, the risotto creamy, and the asparagus cooked to perfection. As I slowly slip into food heaven, I twist my head to look up at Sherlock. He’s got that smug smile going again, like he’s won. And, in all honesty, he has. I really can’t be mad at him any more, not after a dinner like this. “Don’t think this means I forgive you…entirely. You still owe me a new chair.”  


He chuckles. “Of course. Now eat up, your filet mignon is getting cold.”


End file.
